


Five Times Sherlock and John Had Sex and One Time They Didn't

by thecrowsdaughter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Comeplay, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, John Watson Being an Asshole, Kissing, M/M, Medical, Mutual Masturbation, Near Death Experiences, Smut, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 16:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17964293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrowsdaughter/pseuds/thecrowsdaughter
Summary: Five times John and Sherlock did the deed spread over the years they've known each other. It could also be called three times John Watson was a complete twat, two times he wasn't, and once he was a slightly panicky doctor daddy.





	Five Times Sherlock and John Had Sex and One Time They Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely smut of no redeeming value, though there is some angst but it all rounds up with a nice ending. I should be writing four different projects at the moment, but this popped into my head and refused to budge. I'd love to say I'm angry, but, hey, I'd rather have the plot bunnies. 
> 
> I've checked this for errors but if you spot anything silly, please let me know and I will amend. There is a certain amount of repetition in this fic; that's a stylistic choice because we all repeat ourselves, don't we? 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, please check out my other works for more unredeemable smuttiness. Find me on Tumblr where I am crowson75.

**One**

John was stood in the hallway, outside of Sherlock’s bedroom. He was, evidently, a man lost in shock. They’d just got home from the swimming pool. Somehow, despite John having been wrapped in explosives, they were still alive. Sherlock was sure he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t quite believe their luck.

Over and over Sherlock’s mind replayed the vision of John stood before him, a suicide vest around him; John, telling Sherlock to shoot; John with those little red laser pinpoints skittering over his body. Sherlock’s heart thumped in his chest and his brain tiptoed on the verge between fear and the consuming problem of James Moriarty.He stood on the edge, but his adrenalin won. Sherlock knew what he was going to do was out of character. But fuck it, he thought. It was that sort of day.

Sherlock was naked beneath his robe, a bottle of lube in his pocket and a strange feeling in his heart. He knew, stood in his bedroom, his legs were more unstable than he wanted to admit. Sherlock also knew that, until this evening, he’d been blind to what John meant to him. The unassuming, broken soldier, John, made the disparate pieces of Sherlock’s world suddenly click together into a puzzle ball that still confused him but now, somehow, functioned. He wanted to show John what it all meant but, bewildered as he was by human emotion, only one way of doing so registered.

John turned towards Sherlock, who was half hidden behind the door. “Hell of a day,” he said in croaky tones.

Sherlock did not reply in words. He simply walked towards John, reached out, took his arm and led him into his bedroom. They made it as far as the mirror before John stopped.

“What?” John asked. Sherlock dropped to his knees and tugged at John’s belt. “No, no,” John said, though he didn’t move away, even when his flies were open. John tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair and that, at least, stopped him.

“Please, John,” Sherlock said. He looked up without a clue of how well he hid the roil of emotions and thoughts he felt. There was the slightest nod and John’s hand in his hair turned from a grasp to a caress. Sherlock tugged John’s twitching cock through the gap in his pants.

“Oh God,” John said when Sherlock’s mouth closed around the head of his cock. “Sherlock, God, yes.”

Sherlock looked up. His gaze met John’s for a moment before John closed his eyes. Sherlock wondered if John would pretend the person sucking his dick was a woman. Sherlock slicked his fingers and reached behind him.

He had to pull his mouth from John’s cock for a moment when he pressed his fingers inside himself. The moan was obvious. It’d been a while. Sherlock took a few deep breaths and reached out again for John’s penis.

“Fuck.” By the time Sherlock looked up, John had closed his eyes again. “Fuck,” John said again. Sherlock fucked himself with a single finger.

John’s cock seemed to grow thicker in Sherlock’s mouth. He could taste the bitter tang of precome, sweat and chlorine. Sherlock pressed another finger inside himself alongside the first. It was a bit quick. It hurt a little. He sucked just the mushroom head of John’s cock hard until John began to thrust into his mouth.

The burn in Sherlock’s arse eased a little and he started to stretch out the opening. He could feel John’s arousal as if it were a part of him and he knew that he needed to hurry if he wanted John inside him.  Sherlock relaxed his mouth, John’s cock on his tongue, while he slid a third finger inside himself. The stretch was good. Sherlock was hungry. His body thrummed like a plucked string. He pulled the lube from his pocket and got his feet. 

Sherlock slicked his arse with perfunctory swipes and stood braced against the wall, one hand either side of his bedroom mirror. “John,” he said.

John opened his eyes blearily. Sherlock arched his back a little; an unspoken invitation. “What are we doing?” John asked. Sherlock watched John’s reflection shake his head as if it were made of stone.

“Living.”

When it breached Sherlock’s body, John’s cock felt warm and soft but-not-soft. It felt wonderful and awful. It made Sherlock’s stomach clench and his cock throb. Sherlock withdrew one hand from the wall to wrap around his cock. He was tugging himself with rapid strokes before John was fully seated in his arse. But the exquisite sensation of John’s penis against his prostate made his body undulate involuntarily.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned out. Sherlock looked up as John watched him in the mirror. There was something there, in that look, but Sherlock wasn’t skilled enough in reading softer emotions to decipher its meaning. Then John’s gaze dropped to take in Sherlock’s hand frantically pleasuring himself and, almost as if he were mesmerised, he began to thrust in and out of Sherlock’s body in response.

The first few strokes were measured. Sherlock watched John’s face turn into a grimace of self-control. So Sherlock shoved back, and John’s body, at least, got the message. Sherlock watched John in the mirror, his eyes squeezed shut never looking at their reflections. But Sherlock couldn’t look away. He focused on John’s white-tipped fingers as they gripped Sherlock’s hips, the glistening droplets of sweat beaded on John’s brow and upper lip, and the bitten-off grunts John made with each thrust. 

Almost without warning, Sherlock came in a white blaze of searing pleasure. He reached out both hands to grasp the wall and stop his trembling thighs from failing. And John didn’t stop, he just took a step forward and his soft grunts became cries. His dick seemed so deep, so forceful, it made Sherlock’s body rock. And then there was the look, the open-eyed gasp as John came. His face drooped into blissful relaxation and he rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder while he got his breath back. A twitch of the hips pulled John’s cock free of Sherlock’s body, shortly followed by John’s fingers being pushed into Sherlock’s sopping hole.

“John,” Sherlock gasped out, his head sagging between his arms. And the fingers were, almost immediately, gone. In fact, the draft of cold air behind him made it clear John had walked away.

“We never talk about this,” John said. Sherlock lifted his head. John was walking away.He stopped and turned in the doorway. “Ever.”

Sherlock nodded. The door closed. It was over.

 

*

 

**Two**

Sherlock had been home a little over four months. The wedding arrangements had begun. Things weren’t back to normal, but they were headed that way. Sherlock liked Mary. Mary liked Sherlock. And Sherlock was in the process of settling. He never expected to be with John, not in the way John and Mary were, but he had hoped he and John would remain together without a third wheel. That said, if there was a third wheel to be had, Sherlock was pleased it was Mary. All the same, he resented John not living at Baker Street.

And then, one miserable March, John knocked on the door of 221B. Sherlock, who knew it was John from his gait, didn’t bother answering. He just wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He heard John enter, heard him approach, didn’t expect to be spun and slammed against the hall door.

“Not a word,” John said, his expression stormy.  Without another word, he pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s. His tongue bullied Sherlock’s out of the way and flicked around Sherlock’s mouth in a not entirely good way. As if he noticed Sherlock’s ambivalence, John dropped to his knees and dragged Sherlock’s pants and pyjamas down.  He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s not disinterested cock and shoved it into his mouth. 

The visual, of John on his knees before Sherlock and John’s mouth around his penis, was good. It was enough to bring Sherlock’s dick to full hardness. Otherwise, it wasn’t the best. To be the right height, Sherlock had had to drop down the wall, his knees bent. His thighs were already burning and no more than a minute or two had passed.John’s blow job technique also seemed to rely a great deal on feeding as much of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, choking and spitting it out, only to ram it back in again.After the twelfth or thirteenth attempt, Sherlock knew he had to say something.

“Bedroom?” he suggested.John stood so fast, he clouted his head against Sherlock’s chin and the next few moments comprised of both men grasping their injuries and looking pained.

“Bedroom,” John agreed. Sherlock led the way. “Clothes off,” John added when they were beside the bed.

Sherlock dropped his clothes in few scant seconds and then rifled through his bedside table for some lube. He hoped to convince John that perhaps anything was better than another blowjob.

“On the bed,” John demanded. Sherlock rolled himself onto the mattress and laid in the centre, his arms outstretched. John paused and looked at him. “Scars,” he said. Sherlock had forgotten his back and shoulders were ripped into glossy pink, healing, trails.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied and reached up for John.It worked.

This time, John on all fours over Sherlock’s body, the kiss was good. Softer. It didn’t feel like domination or desperation. It felt like John. Sherlock wrapped his arms up and eased John’s body down over his. Sherlock’s dick ended up nestled against John’s and he arched and moaned at the unexpected intimacy of the feeling. He’d never felt anything like it. John held Sherlock’s head in his hands and kissed him with a tenderness that was simply breathtaking.

“Where’s the lube?” John asked. Sherlock pressed the bottle into his hand. John half-rolled off of Sherlock’s body and squeezed the lube over Sherlock’s groin where the slippery stuff dropped in cold splats. John rolled back over. He checked to see that Sherlock was looking before he slid his penis through the transparent liquid. 

“Oh, oh.” Sherlock gulped. At this moment, he realised that sex was not just sex. He’d been fucked before. It might have started that way but it was changing by the minute. Sherlock wondered why this made him terrified. And aroused. John rolled back onto Sherlock’s body and thrust against him. Sherlock arched into the movement and moaned.

“I thought of last time,” Sherlock said. He had no idea why he was talking. his words came in between the times when all he could do was catch his breath. “I thought about you inside me. Oh, yes, there, there, there. I’ve thought about it a lot. Here and when I was gone. Every single time I had a moment to just, well, y’know, I thought of you.” Sherlock’s body was silk beneath the hands of a master tailor who seemed content to shape and stretch him into every curve of their combined bodies.

“I’ve never had that before,” Sherlock said. “Wank material. Is that the phrase? More, John, more. You’re the one I think of. Always the one I think of. Is it wrong to tell you that masturbating to that memory might have kept me sane? I think it did.” Sherlock’s head rolled back, exposing the expanse of his white throat. The maddening touch of John against him, the embrace of pleasure, was as good as opiates and no doubt as maddening in its temporary high. “Oh, yes, harder now, harder. Please. I’m sure when it was happening that you were thinking of something else. You kept your eyes closed. I don’t care if you were thinking about a woman. I don’t care, John. Just don’t ever tell me.”

“I wasn’t,” John replied. His voice was deep, serious. Almost threatening. But hell if it didn’t make Sherlock even more aroused. “I didn’t think of a woman,” John said. “Not once. I just kept my eyes closed because I was too worried about coming too fast.”

“What?” Sherlock was puzzled. Surely orgasm was the point of sex?

“You, there at my knees, your fingers buried in your arse. God, Sherlock, it was so hot. I almost came on the spot. Had to think some bad thoughts not to just come in your mouth immediately.” John’s body trembled and he rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. “Fuck, Sherlock, I hope you’re almost there. I am. Nearly. I was still quite army when we first did this, wasn’t I? A bit of a dick waver. I wanted you to think I was a good lover. So I just shut my eyes. And all this time, you thought I was thinking of someone else. As if feeling my come leaking out of your backside wasn’t the hottest thing I could’ve thought of.”

“I remember that,” Sherlock said. His eyes were squeezed shut tight. He was so, so close. He reached down and grasped John’s buttocks to pull him closer. “I remember. You left after that.”

“Only to stop myself from burying my face between your arse-cheeks and licking the spunk out of you.” John’s mouth was so close now to Sherlock’s ear that he could feel the moisture of the words on his skin. “And that was the gayest thought I’d ever had in my life at that point. It scared me.”

Sherlock imagined John’s sharp, pink little tongue at this entrance and one thrust in just the right spot did the rest. Sherlock came in what seemed like a torrent against John’s body. He held John’s body as his hips fucked up into him through his aftershocks. And that was when John came too, the moisture spread between them, and John’s body trembled. John’s lips were back on Sherlock’s and the kiss said so many dangerous things.

“Forgive me?” John asked against Sherlock’s lips. “Forgive me for being a twat?”

“Forgiven,” Sherlock whispered.

John slithered down their bodies to the mess on Sherlock's tummy. He dipped his tongue into their combined releases and closed his eyes. He pulled a face. Not a good one.

“Lube.” John stuck out his tongue and licked the back of his own hand. “Lube’s brilliant and everything, but why does it have to taste like that? Uerch.”

Sherlock looked up. John was rumpled, naked, cheeky-looking, and very, very beautiful. He smiled. John stuck out his tongue. From the floor, John’s phone rang. _Wind Cries Mary._ John looked at Sherlock and then down at the mattress. Sherlock’s heart hurt. He sat up, stood up and wafted his way out of bed with every ounce of attitude he had. 

“You’re still marrying her?”  

John nodded.

“Best not keep the lady waiting, then,” Sherlock remarked as he left the room.

 

*

 

**Three**

John and Sherlock had been sat in the front room of 221B for forty minutes, silently sat in their chairs, staring into space. They’d just returned home from the former Holmes family home. Eurus would be back at Sherrinford by now, Mycroft would be in the arms of Lestrade and here, silently, Sherlock and John just sat. 

“You ought to go.” Sherlock’s voice cracked appallingly. Until that moment, he hadn’t realised he was on the verge of tears. “Check on Rosie.” His final word was a half-missed whisper.He barely noticed being tugged forward, onto his knees,and between John’s legs. John spread his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, rested his head on Sherlock’s and waited. Sherlock didn’t know when his sobs stopped. He cried for his sister. He cried for Mycroft. He cried for his parents. He cried for John and for Rosie, who could have so easily ended up without him. And he cried because John warned him and Sherlock did not listen, ever drawn to the darkness.

“Let it go,” John whispered against the crown of Sherlock’s head. “It’s all alright now.”

“I almost killed my brother. Myself. You.” Sherlock said in broken gasps. “I never learn.”

“We’re alive. Alive, Sherlock.”

“I want you to fuck me. Hard. Make it hurt. Make me feel it.” Sherlock scrabbled for John’s belt but John’s smaller, stronger hands stopped him.

“No, Sherlock,” John pushed Sherlock back. “I won’t punish you for the actions of your sister. Sorry, but I won’t. Look at me.” Sherlock carried on staring at the carpet. He knew his face was wet with tears and sweat and snot. This wasn’t the moment to be looking at anyone.John’s hand grasped Sherlock’s chin and tried to tilt up his face. Sherlock pushed himself back, over his heels and he scooted on his bum back behind his own chair. Sat beneath his violin stand, Sherlock crossed his arms and tried to stop shaking. 

“Fine,” John said. He took a few steps away from Sherlock. A tea towel landed on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock used it to wipe his face and blow his nose. He heard John huff from the kitchen.

Sherlock stood up, still looking at the floor, tea towel in hand. “I’m tired,” he said and realised it was true. 

“Me too.”

“I need a shower.”

“Me too.” 

“You smell.”

“Thanks.” 

The bathroom seemed bright. Sherlock didn’t know if John had followed him or he’d followed John, but they both stood on the black and white tiles while they stripped off their clothes in silence. Sherlock steadied John as he stumbled as he climbed in the bath by grabbing his arse. John smiled.

John washed Sherlock first. At first, he washed him in perfunctory steps. That stopped when he reached Sherlock’s back and he traced every scarred line with tender touches. By the time John reached the curve of Sherlock’s arse, those touches turned intimate. Sherlock turned. By the time he was clean, he was panting and his cock was ghosting white trails on John’s belly.

Without a word, John handed over the soap. Sherlock put the bar down and washed John’s hair. He picked up the soap again after and washed him little by little. On the way, he discovered John liked to have Sherlock’s lips on the dusky bud of his arsehole and on the soft skin of his balls.

Sherlock had barely finished cleaning John’s feet when he was drawn back up to stand. John’s kiss was greedy and delicious and Sherlock met each suck and nip with his own. The sound of their kisses was obscene against the white, porcelain silence.

“You remember you told me I was your wank material?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. “Want to show me?”

Sherlock stroked his erect cock. He nodded again.

“Best go to the bedroom though, eh?” John climbed out of the bath. “I think we’re going to be very sleepy afterwards.” John wrapped a towel around himself and held out one for Sherlock. When Sherlock wobbled, John held out another hand and helped him climb out of the bath. Sherlock blushed. John pinched his arse. “Come on then, you long drink of brainy stuff.” 

 

Sherlock pouted but followed John to the bedroom all the same. He threw his towel on the mattress, near the pillows, and sat himself down. “Get the lube?”Sherlock nudged his head towards his bedside table. 

John quirked his lips. He walked around the bed and opened the drawer. Sherlock had forgotten about the photo. It’d been taken by Molly. Sherlock’s birthday. Sherlock was wearing the hat and John looked tired after his outburst of emotion. Their arms were so close together on the pub table it looked like they were holding hands. John stroked the glossy surface of the image and put it on the top of the bedside cabinet. The lube was underneath. Sherlock knew what sort of picture that painted. John didn’t say a word.

Sherlock pumped a decent about of lube into his palm, sat back and wrapped one hand around his dick, the other around his balls. He sighed and closed his eyes. He’d managed to do this, once, handcuffed to a radiator, his crotch thrust forward below his constraints. It was familiar, this method of pleasure. It was the preferred, reliable way. When Sherlock opened his eyes again, John was sat in front of him, slowly stroking his own penis. 

“I thought of you too,” John said. “Often. I never forgot what it felt like to have your mouth around me. Your body around me.” John’s eyelids drooped and he adjusted his seated position to give himself easier access to his dick. “I used to wonder if you’d’ve disappeared if I’d’ve let you fuck me. I wanted you to fuck me. I wouldn’t’ve admitted that even a year ago but it’s true.”

Sherlock bit his lip. His cock had jumped in his hand. He’d always assumed that he would be the bottom in his and John’s relationship. He’d always assumed John would want to pretend Sherlock was a woman. Sherlock’s thighs burned. He was thrusting up into his fist and he hadn’t been aware. He scootched down the bed a little way so he could fuck his fist easier. 

“Do have any idea how sexy you are?” John mused. He shifted his body weight and laid out on his side, his head rested against one of Sherlock’s feet. The strokes of his hand over his cock looked firmer now and included an intriguing twisting motion as his hand neared the tip. “I think you’re the sexiest person I know. It took me years to believe you’d even wanted to do anything sexual to me.”

“John,” Sherlock ground out. He was close already and he was too damn tired to care if John thought he was unmanly for coming so fast. “Your voice.”

“My voice?” John asked. “You sound like liquid sex. Jesus, Sherlock, I’m so close already. I can’t stop imagining you in front of that bloody mirror. It’s still the best fuck I ever had.”

“I want you to come, John.” Sherlock scrambled to his knees and crawled closer to John. He didn’t know what made him do it, but he rested his cock on John’s lower lip.

“Fuck,” John whispered and opened his mouth a little wider. Sherlock took another two and a half strokes before he was coming and coming over John’s eager pink tongue, his lips, his teeth, his cheek. He’d barely finished when John was up and he was kissing Sherlock with sloppy arousal. Sherlock fell back on the bed. He could feel John wanking himself as he landed on top of him, and he wanted to be covered in John’s spunk.

“Come on me,” Sherlock whispered between kisses. “I want to smell of you. Please, John.”

John’s teeth grazed Sherlock’s lower lip then sucked the swollen flesh as he came in hot splashes between their bodies. Immediately, Sherlock’s fingers were in the mess, smearing it over his belly and his chest. But John plucked one hand from the wetness and looked at the white glossy coating.

“You’re a dirty posh boy, aren’t you?” John asked. He smiled and sucked Sherlock’s two wet forefingers between his lips and sucked. 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock curled another finger between John’s lips and had to reach down to squeeze his own cock. There was no way he could get hard again, but his cock was twitching with almost oversensitive shocks. He must’ve winced because suddenly John kissed him again and captured Sherlock’s hands behind his back. When they finished kissing, both men gasped for air.

“Enough now, hmm?” John asked against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock realised, when he nodded, how heavy his head was. How tired he was. He allowed John to settle him into bed. He was sure John climbed in beside him. He didn’t remember anything else. When he woke the next morning, he was naked and alone.

 

*

 

**Four**

John must have been waiting for Sherlock to come home. He might not have been expecting Sherlock to arrive as he did. In fact, Sherlock’s broken faux-Louboutin high-heeled shoe entered the flat first.

“Fucking fuckity-fuckbags!” Sherlock yelled. He paused. Someone was in the flat. He took a quick peek around the door. It was John. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Nice,” John replied. “I think that might be only the third time I’ve ever heard you swear.”

“I save it for special occasions.” Sherlock hobbled into the flat. “Appropriate use of swearing is proven to reduce pain and stress.” 

“Sure,” John said. “Are going to tell me why you’re dressed as a woman? A somewhat beaten up woman?”

“I’m dressed as a transvestite, John,” Sherlock said. “If I was dressed as a woman, my disguise would have been better.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Clearly.”

“We have a case,” Sherlock said. “Three transvestite men have been killed. All of them went to the same bar. I decided to go there this evening.” He unfurled his arms in a manner that highlighted and suggested the logic to his apparel.

“So you went to a place where you might get killed, without back-up,to see if you got killed.”

“The bar is clearly incidental.”

John rolled his eyes and sighed. “Okay.”He crossed his arms. “So why do you look like you’ve been in a fight?”

“Completely incidentally, I was in a fight.”Sherlock took off his one remaining, intact, faux-Louboutin. “It turns out certain types of men aren’t entirely nice to transvestite gentlemen on the streets of London.”

“First Aid kit in the bathroom?”

“‘Course.”

“Ladies first.”

Sherlock walked into the bathroom and took his place sat on the closed loo lid. John put the light on and retrieved the kit from under the sink.He turned, put his hands on his hips, shook his head and closed his eyes. 

“That eye’s going black, you know that, don’t you?”John asked, sticking the kit in the sink and opening it up.

“I thought it might,” Sherlock replied.He watched John dampen some cotton wool.

John paused. “Is this waterproof make-up?”

“Remover’s in the cabinet.”

“Cock.”

“Balls.”

John doused three cotton wool balls in make-up removal lotion and started on Sherlock’s foundation. He tenderly and carefully removed the make-up and then started to clean a graze on Sherlock’s temple. He shone a light in Sherlock’s bruised eye.

“Tell me you decked at least one of the bastards who jumped you.”

“Three.”

“How many were there?”

Sherlock twisted his mouth. On the one hand, the truth was impressive. On the other hand, it would make John angry. Sherlock opted for impressive. “Five. Two of them ran away.”

“You shit.” John shook his head, but his lips quirked into a smile. “Your tights are ripped, you’re favouring your left side and your knuckles are bruised and split. Knuckles before or after the shower?”

“Before,” Sherlock replied.He held out his hands. John carefully took one of Sherlock’s hands in his, cleaned any breaks in the skin and inspected them. Then, he repeated the action with the other. While John was working, Sherlock looked at him. He’d come here alone and, if the duffel in the living room was anything to go by, he was prepared to stay overnight. John’s hands were steady but somewhat stilted. He was clearly somewhat nervous. Sherlock’s heart thudded.

“Right, let’s get you undressed,” John said and released Sherlock’s right hand. 

Sherlock stood and started to remove his blouse. He paused. “Are you staying in here?” he asked, suddenly a little shy.

“If I’m going to look at and clean your injuries, it makes sense for me to just stay in here,” John reasoned. “Of course, if you want to play the blushing virgin then…”

Sherlock tilted his head as if he’d not heard what John had said. “Excuse me?”

John raised an eyebrow and started to unbutton his shirt. “I don’t want to get wet, do I?”The shirt was followed by, well, everything. 

Sherlock removed his blouse.

“Wait,” John said. He cleaned an area of grazed flesh on Sherlock’s right shoulder and then inspected bruising that stretched from side to back, just below Sherlock’s waist. He started to feel Sherlock’s tummy and press the bruised area. “Tell me if any of this is painful.”

Sherlock twitched. “Hurts,” he admitted.

“Have you had a wee since you got hit here?”

“Well, no.” Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t urinate on the street, John.”

“Do you think you could have a wee now?”John stuck his head in the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a specimen jar and some testing strips. 

“I’ll try.” Sherlock took the jar and nodded towards the door. He did it again. And again. “Well go outside then,” he said, finally.

“Last time I let you do a urine test in private, I discovered that you had a bottle of someone else’s urine you use for these occasions. You’re doing this test in my presence.”

“No.” Sherlock put his hands on his hips.

“We’ve been to a urinal at the same time before,” John pointed out. “This is the same.”

Sherlock sighed. His side hurt and he was concerned his kidneys might be a bit not good. It seemed right to do what John said but, all the same, it’s not like this was attractive, or erotic, and hell, Sherlock really wanted John to think of him as attractive and erotic. Even half dressed in women’s clothes and half-beaten.

“Fine.” Sherlock pulled down his skirt, tights and knickers in one fell swoop. He hoped John hadn’t spotted the knickers. It turned out he really did need to pee. He even managed to get some of it in the pot. It didn’t take a testing strip or a doctor to see the red tinge. He handed the warm pot to John.

“Blood.”

“Indeed.”

“We’ll keep an eye on that tonight and over the next few days. I expect you to be honest when I ask you about it. Drink plenty of fluid in the meantime.”

Sherlock stepped out of the puddle of fabric at his ankles but kept his back to John.

“Nice knickers.”

“You know I don’t do things by half measures.”

“What do you look like, all crammed into those little knickers, I wonder.”

“Like me. Wearing knickers.”

“Could I tempt you to put them back on?”

“I’m injured.”

“Your dick’s getting hard.”

Sherlock sighed. It was true. He didn’t want John to like the knickers. Sherlock hated the knickers. It was as if his fear, that John fantasised about women when they had sex, had come true. And yet, his dick was being a traitor.

“Do you wish I was a woman?” Sherlock asked. It was one of those knee-jerk questions that he’d never wanted to ask. A fairly dull pair of pale blue lacy knickers had forced it out of him. 

John took a deep inhale and exhale. “Look at me?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

“I never, ever wish that you’re a woman,” John said. “I mean, it’s crossed my mind that I’d’ve been more comfortable with the rumours of our romance over the years if you’d’ve been female, but that’s about it.” He took another deep breath. “As far as our sexual encounters go, I’ve always, always, found you sexy and found what we do wonderful. I’ve never once wished you had a vagina or breasts. But, I know I’ve been pretty awful to you. I’ve treated you the way some men treat women. I’ve picked you up and put you down whenever I wanted to and that wasn’t fair, Sherlock. I’ve realised it’s time for me to not do that anymore.”

“Are you leaving?” Sherlock asked. “I mean, are you telling me we’re never going to have sex again? Or you’re leaving?” 

“I’m telling you that it’s time for you and me to decide what we want from our relationship.” John took a massive exhale as if he’d let all the air out of his body in one deep breath.

“I need a shower.”

“You do.”

“I’ll wash, you can check me for injuries.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Sherlock tried to make it to the bath in a single step. He didn’t have enough control over his emotions to stop them being fully facially visible, so he decided to face John as little as possible. As it was, Sherlock didn’t know how to feel. He wanted John. He loved John. Oh, he knew that just as he knew that spring followed winter. However, he didn’t know how he and John would do ‘him and John’. He knew he’d avoided this stuff at all costs for years for very good reasons.

“The scrape on your thigh is a bit nasty,” John said. “I don’t think you need stitches, but we’ll keep an eye on that too.” John cleaned the cut with lingering hands.

Sherlock tried to wash very quickly.

“No rush, Sherlock,” John said. “You might be sore in the morning. The warm water will be good for your muscles.” 

“I feel weird,” Sherlock admitted.

“In what way? Do you need to sit down? Are you dizzy?”

“I know you. I know what to do when we’re working. I don’t always know what to do as your friend. I know what to do when we’re having sex. I don’t know what to do when you want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” John said. “That’s not much of a surprise. I’m glad you told me, but I didn’t expect you to suddenly change into a different person because I want to know what you’d like our relationship to be like. I thought that you might want to go to bed with me. If you want to.”

“Do I have to wear the knickers?”

“Never. Not if you don’t want to. I was just trying to seduce you in a nice way. Y’know, when we’re not angry or just happy to be alive. I wanted you to have sex with me because you find me attractive and want to have sex with me.”

Sherlock turned around. John seemed small stood below him on the bathroom floor. “But I do find you attractive. I wouldn’t have just had sex with anyone.”

“Good to know.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Maybe you’re not the only one who hasn’t been entirely good at our sex thing.”

“You’re very good at the sex thing. The sexual relationship, well, how can I judge? I’ve always been the one to come and go. Pun intended.”

Sherlock studied John’s face. There wasn’t a hint of irony or sarcasm. “I had sex with you for you and also for me. Is that okay?”

“It’s a good reason.”

“I’ve got a sore arse.” Sherlock’s soaping had reached his backside and, well, it hurt. He spun around to show John, who leant forward to look at Sherlock’s right bum-cheek.

“You’re going to have a bruise.”

“It was a strategic fall,” Sherlock added. “The bruise. I fell strategically in order to shift the body-weight of my attacker in such a way that I could…”

“You don’t have to explain.” John stroked Sherlock’s bum. “I know you’re good in a fight.”

“Oh.”

“Was me just turning up like this a bad idea?” John asked. He turned Sherlock a little so he could look at a graze on the inside of Sherlock’s knee. “This feels a bit awkward.”

“What do you want to do to me, Doctor Watson?”

“Nothing that might hurt any of your bruises,” John replied. “I mean, my original thought was to give you a decent blowjob. I can give blowjobs quite well, I promise.”

Sherlock remembered the choking. He looked at John, who’d blushed up rather gorgeously. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “If you still want that.”

“As long as you’ll tell me if you’re in pain, we’ll do that. But no gritting your teeth and baring it if anything hurts,” John said. “Or if it’s bad.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock climbed out of the bath. A thought occurred to him. “Have you given a lot of blow-jobs?”

“A few.” John blushed a little deeper. “It isn’t uncommon for things to happen in the army. I mean, it’s not like orgies every night but things do happen. I’ve practised a bit. Recently.”

Sherlock’s heart fell through the floor. He grabbed a towel and concentrated on fixing it around his waist far too hard. “With who?”

“Come with me.” John beckoned Sherlock out of the bathroom, into the living room and over to his duffel bag. He rifled through his belongings before emerging with a realistically sized green dildo. John made it wave in Sherlock’s direction. “This is Roger.”

Sherlock giggled. He tried to talk but laughter took the place of words and soon he was almost in tears, gasping for air.

“I mean, he’s a bit quiet in the feedback department, but he’s patient, willing, and, y’know,” John said as he waggled Roger alarmingly. “Ever ready.”

“Have you known Roger long?”Sherlock asked. He wiped his eyes and tried to hold in his chuckles. 

“About a year,” John replied. “Since you and I last ended up in your bedroom. I decided then, see. I decided that since I’ve had the best sex I’ve ever had with you then I might as well try and give you the best sex you’ve ever had too. And, well, no one wants someone who almost vomits on their penis, do they?”

“But I want you,” Sherlock said, suddenly serious. “I’ve always wanted you.”

“Well, you deserve a better me. A me that knows how to give a blow-job, who doesn’t run away afterwards, and who actually thinks about having a relationship with you, not just sex.”

Sherlock thought for a moment and then nodded. What was there to say? Apart from that, anyway? “Want to show me what Roger’s taught you?”

“Do I ever.”John started towards Sherlock’s bedroom as a brisk walk.He looked over his shoulder before he disappeared from view. “Coming?”

By the time Sherlock got to the bedroom, his towel had been lost somewhere, unable to cope with the speed of its owner’s gait. All the same, John and Roger were already seated on the bed.

“It is too predictable if I just get you to lie down while I go at you, so to speak?”John asked. “But tell me if it’s uncomfortable.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just crawled onto the bed and presented himself, spread-eagled, to his lover.

“I’ve never met anyone so confident in their body as you,” John said.

“If you take sex out of the equation, it means nothing.” Sherlock’s hand was involuntarily slipping across the bed to his own cock. His eyes closed. He felt John move on the bed.

“And how’s taking sex out of the equation working for you?”

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John above him. He’d managed to straddle Sherlock quite efficiently and with little drama. “Absolutely awful,” Sherlock replied.

“Glad to hear it,” John answered.

The kiss was downright lascivious. John’s tongue was inside Sherlock’s mouth, making him whimper by sucking Sherlock’s tongue in a manner that implied far more. Within seconds, Sherlock’s body was arching upwards, searching for friction, searching for John.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered when John’s lips moved down, down to Sherlock’s neck and collarbone where he gently nipped the tender flesh. He kissed along the curve of Sherlock’s sternum before detouring to take one puckered nipple into his mouth. John flicked the nub with his tongue and then sucked, then flicked some more. Sherlock moved with the intention of taking his own cock in hand, but John must’ve realised because both of his hands were swiftly pushed away and into the mattress.

John lifted his head. His glistening lips curved into a smile. “Struggling a little, are we?” 

“I’m not good at delayed gratification.” Sherlock tried to lift himself up again to meet John’s body with his. “I don’t like being teased.”

“How do you know?” John asked, still gripping Sherlock’s arms at the wrists. 

“You weren’t my first, John,” Sherlock muttered.

“Never thought I was, sweetheart, but whoever you were with before clearly didn’t make you feel wonderful about relationships.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock snapped. This was intolerable. His cock was leaking, John wasn’t doing anything to help and now he had to talk about Bertie. Fucking Bertie, whose key distinguishing feature was that he was the complete embodiment of his name and all the foppish stupidity that it implied. He was surprisingly discrete, had the sort of penis that could stay erect for hours, no discernible preference between genders, and was, therefore, the perfect subject for Sherlock to learn all about sex with. The bad side was that Bertie liked to tease Sherlock as if he were something to play with and not a man who would simply favour cocaine over sex if the latter proved complicated.

“Shhh,” John said. He kissed Sherlock’s navel and then trailed his tongue downward.

“I thought you wanted to talk about my sex life?” Sherlock demanded even John’s breath ghosted over the head of his cock and oh, oh.

“Feel free to tell me while I work on my technique,” John said before his mouth, amazingly, blissfully, closed over the head of Sherlock’s cock and sucked, sucked, sucked.

“Roger was worth his weight in gold,” Sherlock muttered John’s tongue flattened against the base of his cock and he lowered his mouth as far as he could. It was good. Very good. John followed his mouth down over the shaft with one hand, then lowered his mouth down again. His hand naturally covered the section John’s mouth couldn’t comfortably reach. Roger deserved a sodding knighthood.

“His name was Bertie,” Sherlock said. His brain had decided, now it’d thought about Bertie, to talk about him too. Still, if not coming immediately was the issue John thought it was, maybe the odd thought about Bertie Stibbons might help. “He was a snobbish, arrogant moron who had the most fantastic cock.”

John stopped what he was doing and that was very bad news. “Um, happy to listen but maybe lay off the fabulous cock thing?”Sherlock looked down at John. He had drool and precome on his chin and therefore looked utterly edible. Sherlock sat up and kissed him immediately. “I mean, I know I’m too old to be jealous of, presumably, a young man’s penis,” John continued when his mouth was free again. “But I am. Jealous of young men’s penis’ generally, I mean.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said as he flopped back down on the bed. “It was only fantastic because it stayed hard for ages. Yours is much nicer.” John’s mouth closed around Sherlock’s cock again and he hummed. Those little vibrations did amazing things. “He knew that I was interested in sex back then, so he sometimes withdrew it, or got halfway through and then wouldn’t touch me, or tied me up and wandered off for tea. Oh, do that again!” John had the perfect rhythm of up, suck, down going on, and then added in the occasional testicle fondle or some lovely pressure against Sherlock’s perineum. “He was an idiot. And once I found cocaine, and learned that as long as you bought the good stuff it’d never leave you high and dry, I switched allegiances.”

John stopped what he was doing again and that news was borderline traumatic.

“What now?”

“There’s no good way of saying this, Sherlock,” John said, his lips tight and his eyes flashing anger. “So, I’m just going to say it. If I, say, refuse to put-out one evening, are you going to fuck off and shove a few grams of Bolivian marching powder up your nose, or in your arm,or up your arse, whatever you do with do with the sodding stuff?”

“No, John,” Sherlock replied. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think you’re the sort of person who would anything that Bertie Stibbons did.”

“Well, what if you buggered off to do a recce on a transvestite club one evening without telling me and, as a result, I said, no, Sherlock my darling, I don’t want your penis up my arse tonight, thanks very much.”

“Then I daresay you would then do much as you did this evening and…” Sherlock stopped. John shook his head. “No?”

“If you and I are in a relationship, Sherlock, then I would expect you to have a little more consideration for me than perhaps you presently do. However, I’m a realist and I know that might not be the case and, as a result, I expect I might want to throttle you rather than fuck you every now and then.”

“I’ve not had sex for a whole year, John.” Sherlock threw up his hands in emphasis. “I can eschew sex if I need to. When I was with Bertie, things were, well different. I only wanted him for sex. I want you for much more than that.”

John frowned a little but then smiled. “Good. Now, would you like me to continue what I was doing?”

“No.”

“No?” John looked panicked. “Was it awful?”

“No, John, it was amazing. But I’d like you to have penetrative sex with me now. As in, I’d like you to put your penis in me.”

“You’ve got bruised kidneys and bruised backside.” John shook his head. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“You’re not going anywhere near…”

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Sherlock did as he was bid. John knelt behind him. John’s cock was impressively hard. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and started to thrust against him and ow, ow, ow!

“Ow!” Sherlock said.

“See?”

“But I want to touch you too.”

“Then we can do something else.”

“Like what?” In the time it took John to even begin to reply, Sherlock pounced for the bedside table. “Lube,” he said by way of explanation and soon retrieved his bottle of the stuff.“I think I might have to be on top of you.”

John crawled up the bed a little way and flopped onto his back. Sherlock threw a leg over his hips and squirted lube into his hand. Then he leant forward until his and John’s cocks were side by side and wrapped his hand around them both.

“Let me help,” John said and lubed up his own hand too. Then he entwined his fingers with Sherlock’s to create a snug channel for both of their cocks to pass through. Sherlock could thrust into the channel, against John’s cock and it felt filthy and fabulous. 

“Good?” Sherlock managed to ask. He looked at John beneath him. His face was free of the lines age and recent events had etched into his skin. That was mostly because his face was taut in an open-mouthed picture of pleasure, his blue eyes deep and dark, his hair a tangle of silver. Sherlock set up something of a rhythm, though his hips stuttered at times, almost always when John’s quick pink tongue licked his lips, or the man smiled up at him, bottom lip between his teeth. It seemed ridiculous that those simple expressions could create such a reaction, but that was simply the way it was.

“I haven’t been entirely honest about my relationship with Roger,” John said in a halting voice. Mischief shone in his eyes and Sherlock smiled.

“Tell me.”

“He’s been in more than my mouth.”

Sherlock couldn’t speak for a moment. The image of John with the dildo inside him short-circuited his brain and sped his movements. For a while, all he did was feel as his cock slipped between their hands and John’s dick. Just the sensation of their foreskins moving against each other was arousing enough. Added to that, the change of texture between velvety skin and the rougher texture of their hands was delicious. The mental picture of John fucking himself with a green dildo on top of that assured the swift descent of Sherlock’s brain downwards.

“I really, really want to see that,” Sherlock said at last.“Do you have any idea of how much I’ve thought of penetrating you since you told me you wanted that to happen? It’s tormented me, John. I’ve never done that before. Bertie wouldn’t let me.”

“I think we’ve established that Bertie wasn’t that smart, haven’t we?” John’s body rippled below Sherlock. “Oh bugger, all I can think of now is what the look on your face will be like when you’re inside me. Every man likes a virgin.” He fucked up into their conjoined hands and gasped. “Bloody hell.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock stuttered. His hips weren’t entirely in his control and his legs and arms felt like they might be someone else’s. “But feel free to think about defiling me as much as, oh, oh, _ooh_.”

John’s eyes rolled back in his head, he cried out and came against Sherlock’s cock. The added lube and the visual of John’s beatific expression did for Sherlock too.He came with a whimper rather than a cry. He buried his head against John’s neck and flopped down onto the bed.

“How was that?” Sherlock asked.

“Good,” John said. “Very good.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I want to sleep.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He got up and readied himself to sleep, touched when John followed him. They stood side by side at the sink and brushed their teeth. They got in bed, and John curled up at his side, head on Sherlock’s chest. All the same, Sherlock couldn’t quite shake the notion that he’d wake up alone. He thought about it for a long time but, eventually, drifted off to sleep.

...

 

“Sherlock, Sherlock!”

John’s authoritative tone woke Sherlock from his sleep. He opened his eyes. John was in a towel, here in Sherlock’s bedroom. He hadn’t left. 

“Up and in the shower. We’re going to go pick up Rosie and go get some breakfast. Well, if that’s what you’d like to do?”

“Sure.” Sherlock struggled to a sit. Last night’s fight had left him achy and stiff.

“Paracetamol.” John passed Sherlock two white pills from the bedside table. “Water.” He handed Sherlock a glass. “Up now, so I can have a quick look at your bruises before you hop in the shower. The eye doesn’t look as bad as it might’ve.” 

“You’re still here.”

John pushed back his hair with his fingers. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Thanks for being here.”

John smiled.

 

*

 

 **Five**

“I’d’ve had Roger up there by now.” 

Sherlock sighed. He was being over-cautious, he knew he was. He was treating John far better than normal as if John was fragile, body and soul. Sherlock knew he was. He still didn’t quite believe that John wanted to be with him, wanted Sherlock to be his partner, wanted Sherlock inside him.

“I just want to make sure,” Sherlock said eventually. He spread his fingers a little way inside John.There was barely any resistance. John was ready.

“Come on,” John urged.

Sherlock sat back. He was on his knees, John was on his back before him, his legs draped over Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock grabbed the lube with slick fingers and immediately sent it flying. John caught the bottle and smiled.

“Let me,” John said. He sat up a little, pumped lube into his palm, and slathered it over Sherlock’s penis.

“Cold,” Sherlock complained softly. It might’ve been more believable if he hadn’t whimpered and thrust up into John’s smooth hands.

“Right, crack on,” John said. He wiped the leftover lube onto his own cock and spread his legs.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock lifted John’s hips a little. Sherlock lined himself up and slowly, millimetre by millimetre eased himself inside John’s body.

“Yes, yes,” John whispered over and over as he was slowly filled.

When Sherlock was inside to the hilt, he stopped for a moment. There was a very good chance that, if he moved, he’d come almost immediately, and that wasn’t an option he wanted to consider. This, then, was why John worried about coming too soon. John rocked against him, eager for Sherlock to make love to him and, unless Sherlock got hold of himself, he might not make anything other than a disappointing mess.

“Give me a minute,” Sherlock said.

John’s hand smoothed over Sherlock’s, which was resting on John’s hip. “Intense?”

“Need to calm down,” Sherlock admitted.

“Think of very, very unsexy things. Like Mycroft in spandex.”

“Ew.”

“Did it help?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. He imaged Mycroft in a negligee and shuddered. His penis was certainly more disinterested now. John was hot and tight around him. He pulled out a little and slowly eased back in again. That felt good. Very good. He’d always bottomed before but this was something else. He pulled out a little further than before, then pushed back, and the pleasure reverberated through him. Though Sherlock didn’t want to stop bottoming, he was more than happy to top if it felt like this. John seemed to be enjoying too.

“Unless you’re still struggling with self-control, Sherlock, I need you to just fuck me,” John said.He stroked his cock with firm, steady strokes. “Stop thinking you’ll break me and just do it. Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat up a little, lifting John’s hips with him and, started to thrust properly. He started slow, but the rhythm built as he watched John’s expression change from a man in control to a man consumed by what Sherlock was doing. John’s hand on his cock got faster as the tempo built, and sweat started to make John’s skin glow.

“You’re so fucking good, Sherlock,” John managed to make out, his words distorted by the increased force of Sherlock’s thrusts. “Never expected it to feel like this.”

Sherlock had to agree. Sex between him and John was intense but this consumed him. With his body in control, Sherlock’s mind simply centred to the part of him that was inside John and connected them. From his prone position, John’s eyes blazed and followed every move Sherlock made. Sherlock couldn’t look away. London may have been around them, but it seemed a million miles away from the small world of John and Sherlock’s bed.

It was a simple move to raise one of John’s legs a little higher but its impact was remarkable.

“Oh yeah, oh yes, yes, yes.” John clutched at the sheets and his eyes rolled back in his head. John’s body seemed to vibrate with what Sherlock assumed was pressure against his prostate. “Don’t you dare fucking move, don’t you dare fucking stop and don’t you dare fucking slow down.” John’s hand, still wrapped around his own penis, was a blur. A crisis was coming. A good one.

Sherlock used John’s leg as leverage and, once and for all, ditched any ideas of John being in any way fragile. His hips seemed to know the right tempo and dragged both Sherlock and John with them in tight, hot, pleasure. Sherlock’s thighs burned and the bed made a hell of a racket, but he couldn’t stop for the world. 

“Fuck me, fuck me,” John whispered under his breath. He seemed oblivious to everything. He dragged the sheets off the bed, mussed his own hair and even bit his fingers. He looked wrecked and that made Sherlock feel good about what he was doing. John had come undone.

John’s face contorted, his hips started to lift and push towards Sherlock. He cried out with each thrust until, after half a dozen or so more strokes, John came.So ferocious was John’s release that his spunk decorated his own stomach, chest and even chin with glossy fluid. And, as John came, his body spasmed around Sherlock who tried, for a while, to continue. The aim was fruitless. Sherlock came with John’s body still clenched around him.

Sherlock flopped sideways and his softening dick slipped free. John moaned at the loss and crawled over to Sherlock. He didn’t say a word, just snuggled close until recovered from their exertions.

Eventually, John said, “Do you think you’ve got over treating me like I’m about to break? And I don’t mean just in the bedroom, Sherlock. It’s time, love.” John stroked Sherlock’s chest. “Just try?” 

Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’ll try.”

 

*

 

 **Six**

Rosie stopped breathing.

It’d all happened so fast. One minute she was fine, the next minute her lips had swollen.

“Epipen.”Sherlock pressed the thing into John’s hand and calmly dialled 999. John had given Rosie her first antibiotic. Sherlock was glad he was a paranoid step-parent and got a prescription for EpiPens on the quiet. Three months ago. Okay, he was a very paranoid step-parent.

“What’s the emergency?”

“Allergic reaction to Penicillin, the patient is almost four-years old.”

“What’s the address of the emergency?”

“221B Baker Street. NW1 6XE.”

“Is the patient breathing?”

“No. CPR is in progress.”

“Is it yourself giving CPR?”

“My husband. He’s a GP.”

“Make sure he gives the rescue breaths too.”

“John, do rescue breaths.”

John paid no attention.

“Have you an EpiPen?”

Sherlock looked at John. The EpiPen was unused on the floor. John concentrated on CPR. His own intervention. No rescue breaths. John was panicking. Rosie. Mary. Rosie. 

“Doing it now,” Sherlock said and swept the pen off the floor, uncapped it and plunged the needle in Rosie’s thigh. He massaged the spot when the pen was lifted.

“Any reaction from the patient?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. He knelt at Rosie’s side and gave her two rescue breaths. John looked up and paused. Sherlock gave Rosie two more rescue breaths for good measure.

“Any reaction now?” the emergency operator asked. 

Sherlock looked at Rosie. Her swollen lips were tinged with blue.

“Nothing.”

“Do you have any more adrenalin?”

“Yes,” Sherlock withdrew a second EpiPen from his pocket.

“Have it ready. I want you to keep count of the chest compressions and if you get any reaction at all, you need to roll the child into the recovery position. Is it time for more rescue breaths yet?”

John was at compression number 24.

“Nearly.”

“Two more rescue breaths and if there’s no response, I want you to use the second EpiPen.”

John paused at thirty compressions and Sherlock gave the rescue breaths. He checked Rosie’s breathing. Nothing that he could be sure of. He uncapped the EpiPen and plunged it into Rosie’s other thigh. He rubbed the injection site. Before he’d even finished, Rosie was coughing back to life.

The downstairs doorbell rang.

“On it,” Sherlock said sprinting from the floor. He’d opened the front door to the ambulance crew before Mrs Hudson appeared. “Upstairs,” he instructed. 

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Rosie was breathing and on oxygen when John carried her downstairs and into the ambulance. Sherlock grabbed phone chargers, his wallet and keys, and then followed. When he got downstairs, the ambulance doors were still open.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice was loud. Sharp. A little too high. Sherlock poked his head around the door of the ambulance. “In!”

Sherlock climbed in.

Rosie had begun to cry. It was almost beautiful to see her so fretful. It shouldn’t be, but it was. She was loudly, gloriously, alive and breathing.

“Shhh, shhh, darling, it’s all okay,” John said against her hair. His face was drawn, but those blue eyes flashed up at him and communicated so much.

“You guys need to strap in, okay?”The female paramedic in the back with them said. John sat on the stretcher and the paramedic strapped him and Rosie in while Sherlock sorted himself out. All secure, the woman thumped the side of the van and they were off, blue lights flashing, sirens blaring.

The journey to the nearest NHS hospital wasn’t far but, predictably, Mycroft made it faster. They were driving as if there was little, if any, traffic on the congested London streets. It was obvious almost immediately, that this wasn’t a normal journey.

The Ambulance Technician, who was driving the vehicle, yelled back from the front. “I can’t believe it, it’s like all the traffic lights are on our side.” 

Rosie quietened a little and snuggled her face against John’s neck. John adjusted her oxygen mask and stroked her hair.She still sobbed, quietly, but it was if the energy had disappeared from her system in a matter of seconds. 

“Can you check her SATS?” John asked. The Paramedic leant over.

“She’s fine,” she said. “She might just be tired.”

“It’s clear that your predilection is to be optimistic, but I would rather you be sure.” Sherlock sighed when the Paramedic’s jaw dropped. “I can tell that you’re an experienced Paramedic. Your uniform shows that you’ve lost and put-on weight at least five times and it’s entirely possible you were working for the ambulance service before that, as your boots show significant wear. However, John and I are not experienced parents and we want you to be sure that Rosie is alright.”

The Paramedic looked at John, who shrugged, then at Sherlock. “You look familiar.”

“I’ve got that sort of face,” Sherlock said. He smiled. The Paramedic looked slightly frightened. Silence. Even Rosie stopped crying.

“I can’t believe it,” the Technician yelled. “Fastest journey ever.”

“University College Hospital?” John asked.

The Paramedic nodded. “Closest A&E.”

“Good,” John replied.

“We’re here!”

It was, at worst, a ten-minute journey by road from Baker Street, but this had taken half of that time. Sherlock was glad the journey was over. The Ambulance Tech opened up the back doors. For the first time, he seemed to notice Sherlock.

“You’re that Detective fella, aren’t you?” he asked. “Not dead then?”

“Not for some time,” Sherlock replied and clomped out of the ambulance and then helped John clamber out, Rosie still in his arms.

“Are you his doctor then?” the Tech asked. “Army fella, was it?”

“Indeed,” John confirmed as he walked towards the A&E doors. 

“You guys got the fella who murdered my aunt locked up,” he said. Sherlock was surprised. He expected the Tech to ask where his hat was, or whether Rosie’s illness was a murder attempt rather than a horrible accident. “Always wanted to say thank you,” the Tech continued. “So thanks. She was a lovely woman, my aunt. Didn’t deserve that.”

John stopped walking. He turned and faced the Tech. “You helped my daughter, we helped you. I think we’re even, hmm?”

The Tech smiled. “Let me see if I can get one of the nicer nurses to look after Rosie, eh?”He strode ahead. John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his and they followed. Sometimes, being Sherlock Holmes and John Watson wasn’t so bad.

Rosie was taken straight to Resus where she was monitored. The doctor then told them that he wanted her to be under observation overnight and that she’d be taken to a children’s ward. Thankfully, Mycroft was on the ball and made sure that John and Sherlock could stay with her overnight. Arguably, it was unnecessary for them both to be there, but Rosie was happy and the nurses seemed pleased to have parent-doctor to monitor his child along with them. A specialist came in and told them it wouldn’t be a bad thing for Rosie to have EpiPens prescribed when she took antibiotics again, as well as antihistamines and steroids. They also put her on IV antibiotics for the skin infection she’d been suffering from originally. Sherlock and John watched Rosie unblinkingly when the new drugs were fed into her. Thankfully, there was no reaction.

Overnight, the nurses checked on Rosie at least once an hour and her monitors all had ear-splitting alarms should anything happen. Sherlock discovered this when he decided to play with the machine. John and Sherlock finally bedded down on a mattress by Rosie’s bed and tried to sleep despite the concern, the interruptions, and the noise of a busy children’s ward.After two hours of John not sleeping, Sherlock kissed his neck.

“You need sleep,” Sherlock murmured against John’s skin. “Might a short distraction help?”

“Not here, Sherlock!” John replied, clearly scandalised.

Sherlock sat up. He grabbed John’s phone and his own from where they’d been charging. He fiddled with John’s phone and then handed it to him.

“I thought Scrabble?”

John looked at his phone, then at Sherlock, and giggled. “Oh God, I thought you were going to give me a bloody blow-job or something. You’re a bad man.”

“For Scrabble?” Sherlock tried to look injured.

“No cheating.” John drew up his knees and started to tap at his phone.

“If you insist,” Sherlock said. “Though the app doesn’t always know the same words I do.”

John huffed out a smile. Tired, stressed and hungry though he undoubtedly was, John looked beautiful. He looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him and smiled.

“Prepare to die.”

 

 

 


End file.
